Easier Said Than Done
by Kamakiri
Summary: Arthur Kirkland never thought the damn mission to 'infiltrate' the Gestapo headquarters in Paris would turn out the way it did... Human AU (WWII setting) Warnings: war themes, violence (duh), language and Sexual Themes (eventually) FrUK
1. Ch1 Close Call

My first FrUK ^^

Yay~

Warnings: war themes, violence, language and possible sexual themes (Might change the rating, if it bothers anyone too much...)

I don't own Hetalia or any country, if I did; I would be one happy little Vegemite :3

-Chapter 1: Close Call-

The consistent thud of the officers' boots behind him made Arthur grit his teeth, clenching his hand tightly around the suitcase.

The army had told him three things; go into the Gestapo headquarters, take any files you think are important, leave quickly but don't get killed.

The first two were easier said than done. Sure, he had the files, but now he had two German officers following him. The last, well, that was still to be completed.

It was obvious to him, though, the Germans didn't know he was a British soldier, they probably just thought he was a civilian who had wandered into the wrong building.

Arthur had been lucky enough to walk into the building when everyone else had been elsewhere. But now, he had to find a way to lose the officers in the streets of Paris. Easier said than done.

The streets were all but deserted, with the occasional dishevelled person walking past or into one of the small cafés that littered the streets at irregular intervals.

As he turned the corner, he breathed out a sigh of relief as he pretty much walked into a crowd, the lunchtime rush was starting; even in times like those, there was still enough people in Paris for there to be a rush.

One particular café caught his eye. Three tables were outside yet no one was sitting down, the front windows were made from frosted glass at the lower half of the window, but the top was clear, allowing a passerby a glance inside. As he moved towards the door, a woman stepped out, cradling a child in her arms. She smiled briefly and muttered a quiet "Bonjour, monsieur." A man quickly followed, holding the door open for Arthur before he let go and hurried after her yelling "Mon cher, attendre!*"

The sound of French music filled his ears as he closed the door behind him and the soft aroma of pastries and roses was hinted in the air. His emerald eyes scanned the room, momentarily distracted by the intricate design of the wallpaper, until a soft cough alerted him to a blonde haired man, who was cleaning a shelf down.

The man looked over, blue eyes crinkling as his lips curved into a warm smile. He flicked a hair tie onto his fingers and tied his loose, long hair back as he studied Arthur briefly before looking outside, a frown slowly invading his features.

Arthur silently followed the man's gaze and spotted the officers walking through the now dispersing crowd, into a café four shops away.

"Shit..." Arthur muttered, drawing the attention of the stranger again.

"In trouble are we, Monsieur?" the stranger said in almost perfect English with a heavy French accent.

"It's none of your business." Arthur replied stiffly, scowling slightly at the Frenchman who shrugged.

"It is my café... If you need a place to hide, my kitchen is open."

Arthur looked at a door that the man pointed out skeptically, eying the wooden door behind the counter and displays with a slight amount of disdain.

His eyes wandered outside again, a soft sigh of relief escaping his lips when he saw that the officers weren't there.

He turned to the Frenchman and held out his hand for him to shake.

"Arthur Kirkland."

"Francis Bonnefoy, a pleasure to meet you, Arthur... What's a Brit doing here? France has been invaded by the Nazis, you know."

Arthur looked out the window, eyes widening.

The officers were exiting a café, then stopping outside of it, talking hurriedly. It was when they began gesturing vaguely in the direction of the café that Francis grabbed Arthur's hand and led him behind the counter.

"Go inside. To your left, there is a door about two meters away, open it and lock the door behind you. The light switch for that cupboard is on the right of the inside of the door." Francis murmured without looking at him as he opened the door to the kitchen, eyes warily watching the Germans as they approached.

Arthur nodded.

"Thank you." he said quietly, slipping inside the kitchen, soundlessly making his way into the cupboard but deciding against having the little light on when he locked the door, clutching his suitcase to his chest as he listened.

Even from there, he could hear everything that was going on in the café. The door soon opened and the two soldiers entered with a lot of scuffing of boots and harsh muttering in German.

They crossed the room and Arthur thought he heard a gun being loaded as one of the men started speaking to Francis, switching to a rather rough French.

"Où est-il, l'homme Britannique?*"

"Celui que vous cherchez n'est pas ici, je peux vous assurer...*" Francis replied evenly.

Arthur tensed when he heard the kitchen door open and the sound of booted feet crossing the room to the cupboard door. He could hear the breath of the German on the other side as he tried the doorknob, to no avail.

The soldier rejoined the other one and soon, a shot was fired, but it sounded as if it was shot through the thin plaster walls.

Almost like that had set off a fire of anger in one of the German's minds, Arthur heard the noise of metal hitting flesh with a harsh slap, followed by a string of tauntingly spoken, almost sung, words;

"Vous grenouille stupide! Rappelez-vous que amant juif de la vôtre?" then a few more, whispered words Arthur couldn't catch. And with that, and another slap, the Germans left, the sound of their boots crossing the threshold again making him breathe out in relief.

Well, he still wasn't dead.

*(translations, in order)*

"My dear, wait!"

"Where is he, the British man?"

"Whoever you're looking for isn't here, I can assure you..."

"You stupid frog! Remember that Jewish lover of yours?"

Well, that's one chapter done!

Review and all that, please!

Also, if anyone knows a bit about the Free French and Vichy France, I would love it if they could pm me some info~

-Kamakiri


	2. Ch2: Scar Tissue

Wow, so people like this, eh?

Good! I'm glad :3

Shout out to Francey-pants98, Nationless, and Turquoise Shell for the reviews! Thanks guys, it made me all happy to see that it was enjoyed ^^

Disclaimer is on first chapter, so I'm not repeating that...

-Chapter 2: Scar tissue-

Arthur held his breath again when he heard the kitchen door slam open and angry footsteps cross the floor to the cupboard he was in, followed by a sound of a key being clicked into place and turned. The door creaked open to reveal Francis, who had his head half bowed, one hand pressed to his jaw. He smiled slightly at him as he stepped out of the cupboard, dusting himself off.

"The Gestapo are after you, eh?" Francis asked, moving over to a bench, opening a small medical cabinet to retrieve a box, which he put down on one of the benches.

Arthur sighed.

"You see any other Brits around here, Frog?"

"I saved your arse, Arthur. I deserve to know."

He looked at the other suspiciously, studying him as he was opening the box and taking out a jar of tablets and a needle and thread. The Frenchman looked up at him, which revealed a short, deep cut on the corner of his lips and the darkening mark of a bruise on his jaw.

"How do I know that I can trust you?" Arthur asked, raising a thick eyebrow, crossing his arms.

Francis shrugged.

"If you're wanted by them, you would be wanting to get back to Britain, correct?" he gestured around, indicating a few boxes, "I'm trying to get there, too."

The Brit scoffed.

"Why, you getting paid to work for the Nazis so you want to sneak into Britain and spy?"

Francis stopped and stared at him briefly before moving over to a mirror that hung opposite the wall, cleaning the needle and silently putting in three stitches carefully to close up the cut. He stared into the mirror, sighing, seemingly forgetting Arthur was there until the man repeated the question.

"I used to be in the French army, at the start of the war. Why would I want to work for Nazis or stay in a hell ruled by a puppet government?" he replied evenly, though there was a hint of acidity and sadness in his words and eyes.

Arthur nodded to himself, there was no chance that the man was a spy, he'd known that but had been testing him.

"What happened?" he inquired.

"I was a gunner on the front line, before France was invaded... We were told to retreat, so I packed up my things but as soon as I began to leave with the others in my division, I was shot." Francis unbuttoned his shirt, holding it to one side so that Arthur saw the scar on his ribs, "It was stuck between my ribs, I broke both... luckier than most... They sent me a temporary letter of discharge but months later, I couldn't rejoin anyways..."

Arthur pursed his lips, sighing.

"My apologies..." he mumbled, glancing away, "You could come with me, then. I need someone who can speak decent French to get me across the border and sea..."

Francis smiled, buttoning his shirt up again when he realised the other was somewhat embarrassed.

"Thank you, I will gladly join you." he grinned, returning the medicines untouched and the needle back into the box and into the cabinet.

"Come, my house is behind the café and so is my car." Francis said, grabbing Arthur's hand and pulling him out of the kitchen. He stood, somewhat sadly looking around at the shop before he went to the till and got out the money, pocketing it.

He nodded to himself before he looked at Arthur, motioning to him to follow as he headed out the door, locking it behind the both of them.

"What about the fo-"

"There isn't any food out, I gave my last to the lady before." Francis said hurriedly, heading into a long alleyway. The walls were damp and the alley smelt of urine, both human and animal, mixed with the smell of... death.

Arthur shivered, tugging at his jacket. He hated that smell, that musty, mouldy smell. Even after seeing so much of it during that damn war, he still wasn't used to it.

A soft cough alerted him to the fact they had reached the end of the narrow street, and were facing a small house.

Francis opened the door and quickly gathered his things, returning to the front soon enough.

He smiled and moved over to a car near the house and stopped.

The tyres had been slashed and the windows utterly smashed.

The Frenchman's look was guarded as he ushered Arthur inside, closing the door behind them.

"I have a car, but its too far away plus its much too dangerous to get it." Arthur said quietly.

Francis shook his head and sighed, blue eyes clouded over with confusion.

"No, its fine... We'll have to travel by foot." he replied, eyeing him wearily.

"And leave at night." Arthur agreed.

So, the duo left a full nine hours later, when it was dark.

The stars and moon were hidden as they walked, cautiously looking around. Both had guns, only pistols for now, but they hoped they wouldn't have to use them.

They also both had their bags, though the amount of possessions each carried numbered very few, mostly money and clothes (plus Arthur's files.)

They had been walking for nearly two hours, hugging the shadows, when they reached the outer streets of Paris. The houses here weren't as well looked after as the owners had left, the streets were gloomier and a sense of forlorn danger was in the air.

It was when they reached these outer streets that they heard a shout, something in German.

Then the shooting began.

.…

Ooh, cliffhanger!

Hope you guys liked that, I liked writing it a bit more than I liked writing the first chapter :)

R&R, please~!

-Kamakiri


	3. Ch3: Hide

_This chapter will generally set the mood for the story; slightly dark and gritty (but it will get... worse.)_

_Shout out to mein reviewers; your reviews make me very happy, trust me, they do ^w^_

_And a shout out to my silent readers; if it weren't for you's, I would have less off an audience to write for._

-Chapter 3: Hide -

Francis grabbed Arthur's hand and roughly dragged him through an open doorway of a house that had been burned out.

His blue eyes were narrowed as he listened, the gunshots ringing out hollowly from the next street.

"House raids..." He muttered, sighing.

A yell of distress from the direction of the shots, which had now stopped. A loud cry of "Papa, Maman!-" pierced the air, soon followed by shrill screams.

This had Francis away from the doorway, gripping his bag tightly, a grim look on his fair face.

Arthur glanced out the door, a sour feeling in his stomach when the screams stopped and were replaced by smugly yelled German words and laughter. He scowled, hearing a truck putter into life as he followed Francis through the house to a sunroom in the back.

They both sat down silently on the floor of the room, which had pale red walls and a dark timber floor with very few furnishings.

"... Rouen should be a safe enough place, shouldn't it?" Arthur asked finally, thinking back to that map of France he had studied vigorously before he had arrived.

Francis shrugged, clicking his suitcase open and taking out a map. He smiled slightly at the other and shrugged again.

"Oui, I'm French but I'm not that good with travelling by foot at night," he said, smoothing it out on the floor before tracing a line from Paris to Rouen.

"It's a port on the Seine, the German's would have a fair amount of soldiers there, but, we'd just be passing through. It should be fine."

The Brit nodded.

"Right... How long would it take to get there?" he inquired.

Francis frowned a little, staring at the map thoughtfully.

"A bit over a day, I think. Twenty-six or so hours." he replied eventually.

Arthur sighed, leaning back. He glanced out the window at a shadowy garden, watching the flowers moving gently in the breeze. Then he noticed a shadow that was too big to be a normal shadow, and his suspicions were confirmed when the shadowy figure dropped something, which flicked on when it hit the pebbles. The torch illuminated a pair of dark brown boots, scuffed from heavy wear.

He swore, tugging Francis down with him, pressing their bodies to the floor, glad that the window was a whole meter off the ground. And that, apparently, the wall was thin enough for them to listen.

The pebbles crunched under two pairs of boots, one more hesitant than the other, and two sets of breaths were low but nervous.

Finally, a voice broke the almost silent air.

"... I don't think anyone's here." a young, heavily Italian accented voice piped.

"Tch, try telling that to those bastards. Hey!" A second Italian called, pebbles scattering loudly as he kicked his boot.

"Ja, what?" a third voice, obviously German, replied, filled with boredom.

"There's nothing here. Also, why the fuck can't I speak my native language?" the second Italian spat.

The German took a little longer to respond, inhaling loudly through his nose.

"Boss' orders are to patrol these houses everyday, you two are new here, but you now report to our General." he laughed harshly "Because we don't know what you say in your silly language, so, stick to English. We all speak it."

The Italian spat into the pebbles, stalking to somewhere else in the garden, but the German called him back.

"The reason we have you two out here tonight, though, is because Herr Commander wants you to look for a man we think is a British soldier. From what we know, he took valuable information from Gestapo headquarters. He has dirty blonde hair, green eyes and more noticeable eyebrows."

"Tea bastard with bushy eyebrows, too fucking easy."

"Calm down, please, Lovino! I don't know what they'd do to Mama if we screw up, but please...!" the first Italian whispered loudly.

The second, the one named Lovino, was silent for a moment.

"... okay. When do we start?"

"Now. If you find him, follow him and send us his location."

The Germans stayed for a little longer before disappearing with much stomping of their heavy boots and muttered words.

Arthur cautiously lifted his head and peered out the window, feeling a wave of relief go through him when he saw that the two Italian's were facing away.

From what he could see, he guessed that they were brothers and fairly young, in their early twenties.

Their conversation wasn't in English, but in quickly spoken Italian, something Arthur didn't know. He nudged Francis and mouthed 'We need to leave.' to which the other nodded.

They began a slow crawl out the door, but stopped when they looked back and saw that the Italians were moving around to the front of the house. They were so trapped.

"Shit."

Francis nodded grimly and looked around, a fleeting look of recognition in his eyes.

"I had a friend who lived here when I was younger." he whispered, "there's a hidden room. This way."

The Brit's eyes widened as the Frenchman stood up in a low half crouch and snuck along the hallway, grinning mischievously as he slid his fingers inside a gap in a wooden panel on the wall and tugged. The panel swung open like a little door, revealing a room that was big enough to hold three or so people.

Francis quickly stepped inside and held out his hand to Arthur.

"Quick!" he hurried.

Arthur nodded, hurrying along the hall, soon disappearing into the room as well, and just in time; the front door opened just as Francis closed the panel behind him.

The duo waited as the footsteps came closer, soon passing them.

The Italians stayed for ten minutes, quickly checking each room before they went out.

"Fratello, can we go home now? My feet hurt and I'm hungry."

"Si, si, we're going home."

They said as they left.

Francis and Arthur sighed in relief, waiting a few more minutes before they decided it was safe, and got out of the room.

They stood in the hallway, clutching their bags.

"To Rouen?"

"Oui.- merde." Francis bit his lip savagely and rushed into the sunroom. The map, which he had left, was gone.

"They took it."

Arthur scowled at him.

"What kind of stupid twat are you, leaving a map out?!" he scoffed.

Francis glared right back, but soon dropped it and sighed.

"I-I couldn't think straight."

"What, you were scared of the Italians?"

Francis did not reply but simply turned away.

"Rouen is along the Seine, we just have to follow either the river or the road to there. There are signs." he said.

Arthur sighed.

"I suppose we'll just have to follow the road." he muttered.

Just before dawn, they set off again after a short rest.

And half an hour into the trip, they were finally out of Paris, finally on the road to Rouen.

:::::


	4. Ch4: Of Songs and Birds

_._. I know, I'm bad. I haven't updated in a week (/is killed by fangirls/)_

_Welp, I will say there shall be some fluff next chapter ^_^_

_Shout out to mah Reviewers; love you all! *hugs*_

_And the Silent Ones. You know who you are *waves*_

-Chapter 4: Of Songs and Birds-

Arthur huffed, resolving then and there that they had to get a cart or something for their bags at Rouen.

They had been walking for over eighteen hours now, and had stopped to have a brief lunch behind a low hedge, amongst the long grass to remain hidden from view from the road, two hours back.

Francis walked happily along, taking graceful strides whilst singing to himself, though, fairly loudly.

"J'aime la façon dont vos lèvres touchent la mienne et j'aime la façon dont tu me touches, oh o-*"

"Please stop singing that." Arthur said, wrinkling his nose at the somewhat... provocative love song.

The Frenchman shot him a grin and laughed.

"Ah, I forgot you spoke some French... Oui, I'll stop." he sighed, hefting his bag.

The silence that descended over the duo set in slowly, and was quite uncomfortable, to the point Arthur actually decided to break it.

"Do you have any um, family in the army?" he asked.

Francis kept up his unhurried pace, staring ahead as he mulled over the question.

"I hope not. I have one brother, but last I heard, he moved to Canada. And my father passed away many years ago. What about you?"

Now it was the Brit's turn to feel uncomfortable.

"... three older brothers, one younger. All but the eldest are in the army."

"The eldest is in the navy or airforce?"

Arthur hesitated, a sad look in his eyes as he shook his head.

"No, dead. He died a little while back."

Francis stopped walking, brushing his fringe behind his ears.

"I-I... My condolences." he said softly.

The other shrugged, walking past him.

"Thanks... C'mon, I want to get there by this evening."

The Briton and Frenchman continued walking at a good pace until they both heard an engine in the distance.

"Truck."

"Oh fuckin-"

Francis rushed to the edge of the road, leaning over a large, jagged rock.

"Now isn't the time to have a swearing fit, Arthur. Calm down." he hissed, motioning him over.

As soon as he was near, still standing up straight, he rolled his eyes and pulled him (more like tackled) to the ground.

Arthur stared up at him, emerald eyes wide in outrage but Francis ignored t and clamped his hand over his mouth as soon as he looked like he was about to start spitting his verbal venom at him.

He crouched lower, glad for the rock as a truck trundled over a rise that they had just climbed.

The early afternoon sun glared off the dark metal of the truck, which was just simple troop transport; no canvas top to be seen. However, there was a smaller truck behind that, carrying a meagre four soldiers compared with the former trucks eleven, and this truck had a machine gun mounted on it. Luckily, the man at the gun was occupied with arguing with a stout, glaring man.

The trucks continued down the road, on towards Rouen, apparently, but they slowed abruptly when they were a scant ten meters past.

Francis bit his lip; he was sure they had been spotted.

A few men loaded their guns, but, to his surprise, they weren't looking behind themselves but above. At a few birds that were flying past, whose dark feathers shined a pretty blue in the sunlight.

A shot rang out, one bird fell from the sky with a drawn out call, and was followed in its breakneck fall by three other birds, which all splatted right onto the road; a mess of feathers, broken bodies and blood. Yet, one bird wasn't as mashed up as the others. It limped about three steps before the bored soldiers shot it into pieces.

The trucks were started up again, and rolled onwards, soon puttering off into the distance,

The duo didn't move until the silence of nature returned, a full ten minutes after the trucks had disappeared from view.

Arthur stared up at Francis, who was crouched over him, unconsciously protectively.

He coughed awkwardly to get his attention, blushing slightly.

"Could you get off me, please? You're kind of, um, crushing my balls..."

Francis looked confused for a moment then glanced down and grinned, rolling off Arthur. He stood and offered the other his hand then they retrieved their bags from under a bush a few meters away.

They hesitantly set off again after checking that the coast was clear.

As they passed the mangled remains of the birds, Arthur couldn't help but look.

The sad sight had him looking away again. Sure, they had been just birds, but maybe he was just human. Maybe his end would be similar to their's; killed in flight, fleeing from the Gestapo with their guns blazing.

He sighed, shaking his head.

The Frenchman seemed pretty determined on keeping him alive, he thought he might survive with his help. Might.

Francis was singing to himself again, but the tune was deeper, more sorrowful but loving at the same time, the only words he heard before he finished were thus;

"Pourtant, la mer vous traîne loin partir d'ici, à loin pour moi d'aller. Si je devais laisser demain, seriez-vous toujours soyez là?*"

Arthur smiled slightly.

"That's a beautiful song." he said.

Francis smiled sadly, sighing as he cautiously glanced around.

"I wrote it after..."

"After?" he asked.

"After my lover disappeared..." The Frenchman replied hesitantly, straightaway correcting himself "Left, I mean."

Unsure of how to reply, Arthur sighed.

"Oh..."

"She was a Jew..."

He stopped talking at that point, both of them did. Both of them had seen the little secretive murders in alleyways late at night, and had their own ideas.

Arthur exhaled heavily, hoping Francis' lover was indeed alright and had just ran away.

By nightfall, they reached Rouen and found an old hotel to stay in, three hours quicker than they had originally thought.

Tomorrow would be a lot harder; trying to get out of Rouen without the Germans knowing would be a definite challenge.

::::

"I love the way your lips touch mine and I love the way you touch me, oh o-"

"Yet the sea drags you away from here, to far for me to go. If I were to leave tomorrow, would you still be there?"


	5. Ch5: Rouen

_I know, this took a bit longer to write ._. Don't kill me, please!_

_Writer's block._

_But, I managed to finish this with a horrid headache, I'm proud of myself :3_

_Shout out to the reviewers, followers etc; love you all!_

_Its nice to see that people are indeed liking ESTD ^_^_

_As a note, I'll explain Rouen;_

_If you know your history, you would know its where Joan D'Arc was burned at the stake._

_In WWII, it was one of the more important ports and was bombed by the Allies in 1944._

_Also, this is roughly set in June-July 1942, for those who are curious._

* * *

_-Chapter 5: Rouen-_

"A drink, sirs?" the bartender asked, taking their empty plates with a tired smile.

"Non, merci, I'm fine." Francis replied evenly, head tilted as he listened to a group of men in a corner nearby, crowded around a radio. All of the men were French, no Germans were in the bar at this hour, yet.

"What about you, monsieur?"

Arthur realised the man was talking to him but kept his mouth shut as Francis covered for him.

"He's mute; a... accident a little while ago." the Frenchman said in a low voice, accent dripping with conviction.

The bartender's easy going features hardened into grimness and he sighed, shaking his head gravely.

"My condolences. Are you staying here for much longer?" he asked, voice equally as quiet.

"No, only tonight."

"Of course. I hope your room is good enough, Monsieur Bonnefoy." the slightly tanned, balding bartender bowed slightly and moved over to where one of the men from the group had come over to the bar to order.

(_Le skip of a few hours~_)

Francis and Arthur sat on the bed later that night, mulling over a quickly scrawled map a man from the bar downstairs had drawn up for them. The map detailed where the Germans had soldiers stationed in Rouen, where the roads out were and a few other things.

"...and according to him, Dieppe is a lost cause but Le Havre is better. He did say there is a smuggling campaign going on there, trying to get people over to Wessex, out of France." Arthur said with a yawn, stretching.

"That I doubt; Le Havre is at a better posit-"

"Francis." Arthur quickly held up his hand, silencing him. They both sat still, listening as a drum thumped rhythmically in the street, moving away gradually.

Francis sighed.

"Fine, Le Havre it is." he laid back, staring at the ceiling.

"If I die there, I'll come back to kill you."

Arthur rolled his eyes, awkwardly undressing into his singlet and briefs before getting under the sheets, turning so that he had his back to Francis.

"Night..." he mumbled, closing his eyes.

"Good night, Arthur." The Frenchman replied, soon discarding his day clothes and getting into bed also, keeping to the edge of the queen sized bed they had to share.

When dawn broke and the light began shining through the window, Francis stirred slightly, straight away noticing the warmth of a body pressed against his own.

He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw the Brit curled up next to him, head resting lightly against his chest, a soft frown upon his lips as he slept on.

Francis sighed.

He had realised the night before that he had fallen for the other, deeply so. But, in times like those, he simply couldn't and wouldn't make a move. It wasn't the right time, not now, in the middle of a war. Love was something that should be the last thing on his mind. And besides, Arthur certainly wasn't gay, that was obvious to the Frenchman.

He quickly closed his eyes when he felt the Brit waking up.

"Holy mother of God." Arthur sat up, moving away, so Francis took that as an excuse to 'wake up', yawning lightly and stretching.

His eyes fluttered open and lazily gazed around, stopping on Arthur, who was busying himself with searching through his suitcase for clothes.

"Bonjour, Arthur. How did you sleep?" the Frenchman asked innocently as he sat up, stretching.

The other nodded slightly, pulling a shirt on.

"Fine enough, yourself?"

"Amazingly well, thank you for asking."

Arthur frowned a little, glad when the Frenchman turned away to also get dressed. He certainly did not want to know what he had dreamed about.

He was still extremely embarrassed about cuddling into Francis, but in a way, he could explain it.

During the night, he had had a nightmare where the Gestapo had shot Francis when they were running away and he had gotten lost trying to escape, eventually getting caught by the Gestapo.

He shuddered, donning his pants and shoes with a sigh.

He had then woken up, thinking the other was dead. Admittedly, he had panicked slightly but the warmth of his body next to his had calmed him enough to let him fall asleep again.

He could explain that, but he certainly wasn't going to.

(_Le skip again [I am not getting lazy, I swear!]_)

They were nearly out of Rouen, ten minutes away from leaving the paved streets and morose citizens, when a patrol began the usual march, just up the road from them.

Francis pulled Arthur to the side, starting to realise that the soldiers were looking at people as they walked past. The Brit frowned, looking around but Francis shook his head, sighing.

"It's no use; there is no where to hide."

"What are we going to do then? We're bloody sitting ducks, just standing here!" Arthur exclaimed.

Francis hesitated, glancing at the patrol then back at Arthur.

"I have an idea, but you might not... approve."

"What?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

"I don't have time to explain! Do you want to live?" he asked.

"Of course!"

"Then trust me on this one." he said softly, swiftly moving closer and pulling Arthur into a kiss at the same time, moving so that Arthur's body was hidden behind his own.

Arthur's eyes widened, attempting to push away but the Frenchman held him against the wall, barely grazing their lips together, but doing it in such a way that he had not experienced before. It intrigued and freaked him out at the same time.

He suppressed a shiver of delight, extremely happy when the patrol had gone.

Francis stepped back like it had been nothing, a smirk on his lips when he saw Arthur's blush, and the glare he shot him.

"Bloody twat! Wh-what was that about?" he spluttered, wiping his mouth, utterly 'disgusted'.

Francis grinned cheekily, hefting his bag and stepping back onto the road.

"Good cover up, no?"

Arthur whacked him lightly and glowered.

"Don't do that again!"

"Aw, but I thought you might've liked it, Art~" The Frenchman teased, chuckling.

"What."

"Well, you did hug me in your sleep."

Arthur's face paled.

"Th-that-..."

Francis chuckled, shaking his head.

"It's fine, calm down."

The duo settled into an awkward silence, each preoccupied in similar thoughts.

One main one on Arthur's mind was how soft Francis' lips were.

Not that he liked him or anything.

...


	6. Ch6: Dirt, Apples and Bullets

-_**Chapter 6: Dirt, apples and bullets**_-

Arthur crouched lower, into the dirt as a truck rumbled past the fence he hid behind, throwing up dirt into his face.

Francis crouched next to him, eyes narrowing as he stared at the truck, mouth curled into a pensive frown.

"There's men in the truck, in the back." he growled.

"It's not a cattle truck?" Arthur asked, crawling forward a little to squint at the truck as it turned a corner and disappeared, its route covered by bushes and willows.

"... Prisoner camp truck. I heard they had a prisoner camp in Paris, set up to keep any French soldiers in, but I never thought they were real." Francis replied, moving onto his knees, leaning wearily against the fence.

They had been walking for over a day now, since Rouen, and the amount of trucks that passed them meant they couldn't stop, didn't want to stop; if they stopped and slept in an empty house, what were the chance that they would be found?

Arthur sighed, sitting up.

Francis couldn't help but gaze happily at him, ignoring the Brit's dirty face, wrinkled and smudged shirt; completely, and absolutely absorbed in staring at that gorgeous face that he didn't see a boy sneak up to them from the house until he held out an apple.

The boy was roughly ten or so years old, with a lean body built for running or farm work. His eyes were a soft brown, complimenting his tan and chestnut coloured hair perfectly.

"M-monsieur?" The boy asked softly, offering the apple more insistently, quickly producing a second and handing it to Arthur shyly.

"Merci, mon garçon! Y at-il quelque vous voulez en retour?*" Francis asked, smiling warmly at the boy, who promptly shook his head, clutching his hands behind his back as he rocked back on his heels.

"Non, monsieur, rien du tout*," the boy paused looking back towards the house, through the trees, "Êtes vous Monsieur Bonnefoy?*"

"Ouais, je suis.*"

"Ma mère était ami avec Emilie ... Elle envoie ses condoléances et vous souhait la meilleure des chances.*" the boy whispered, hugging the Frenchman before scurrying back to the house.

Arthur's eyes followed the boy til he couldn't see him, heaving a sigh as he stood cautiously.

"Who was he?"

Francis stood as well, fingers pulling at a loose piece of leather from his bag as his blue eyes misted over with tears.

"Emilie only had one friend that I knew of, her name was Jane... she had two sons and a daughter, her husband is dead." he replied softly, looking away, "so he would be one of Jane's sons."

Arthur watched him tuck a silken strand of blonde hair behind his ear, azure eyes narrowed in thought as he began moving towards the road again, absently raising the apple to his lips and taking a bite.

"Emelie was your lover, wasn't she?"

Francis didn't reply but from the way he pursed his lips and his face clouded over with a nameless emotion, Arthur knew he had hit a raw nerve, so he dropped the subject, eyes scanning the sky.

"... The sun's going to set soon." he said quietly as they walked.

"Oui, so it is." came the reply, "We'll keep walking but if we find another house before we hit the forest we can stay there for the night. We deserve a sleep."

Arthur nodded, yawning involuntarily.

"Sounds good to me..." he mumbled.

The sunset crept upon them quickly, as dusk darkened enough that they had to squint in the fading light, they spotted a lonely, empty house and what looked to be a machinery shed.

The ground crunched under their boots, as they stepped on the loose leaves shed by the trees that lined both sides of the narrow road that led up to the house and shed.

Both men had their guns out when they stepped inside, taking quiet but nervously deep breaths as they checked each room, hoping that there weren't any German soldiers in hiding.

Luckily, there were not. However, they had another problem; someone was walking up the road. Arthur clutched his bag close as he peered out the window, towards the shed where two figures were creeping along, talking in hushed voices.

Neither man doubted who the two were when they heard a few Italian words.

"They bloody followed us!" he whispered.

Francis nodded worriedly, motioning that Arthur should follow him to the back door. And so they did, soon slipping through the back door and standing in the vegetable garden, breathing in the sickly sweet scent of rotting fruit, which wafted over from the fruit trees behind the garden.

Arthur frowned, back pressed to the wall as he moved to the corner, peering around at the shed.

The two Italians stood at the corner furthest away from them, which was good. The bad thing was both of them were armed with rifles and torches.

"We can run around, there's a door on the other side. We sneak up behind them and grab them, pull them inside and finally knock them out or kill them." Arthur whispered, motioning to the shed.

Francis nodded grimly.

"I don't feel like killing someone in cold blood, though." he whispered back, earning himself a sigh from the Briton.

"Fine, fine. We'll just tie them up and knock them out."

"Deal. Let's go!"

The duo slunk through the garden and around the back of the shed with a stealth that easily rivalled that of a cat. They hid in the shadows of the machinery shed, eyes drifting to the outlines of a plough and an old car, listening to the Italians, who had switched from Italian to English out of habit, luckily for Francis and Arthur.

"... si, they're in there! I saw shadows moving."

"Where?" there was a soft clinking noise and Arthur began to wonder what it was.

"Front room, to the left."

Francis tugged Arthur forward, at which time one of the Italians had drawn a grenade and pulled the pin, quickly stepping forward a bit and lobbing it at the house, tugging the other into the shed just in case as the grenade barely smashed the window and exploded, sending smoke and shards of glass across the ground in front of the window.

The seemingly older Italian let out a cackle at this and looped arms with the other, dancing a few steps before fist pumping.

"Boom boom, mother fuckers!" he laughed about to turn to the younger when Arthur pressed his gun to the back of his head, as Francis did the same to the other.

"Okay, names?" Arthur asked.

The one he had spat, but didn't struggle, nor did he say anything.

"My name is Feliciano and he's Lovino! We're brothers, you see? In the army, just conscripts! Please, don't kill me!" The younger whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Zitto, Fratello!" Lovino hissed, only to receive a warning jab from Arthur.

The brothers were then led into the corner of the shed and tied up.

"Its too late, bastards. German's are coming." Lovino smirked defiantly.

"... How do you know this?"

"We were ordered by-!" Lovino shot his brother an icy glare, silencing him.

Francis stood, quietly listening. His eyes widened at the sound of a truck, instantly grabbing Arthur's hand briefly.

"We need to go- right now!" he said, already running out of the shed and into the field surrounding the property.

"But what about them?" Arthur asked as he ran after him, quickly catching up.

"I don't care, I'd rather live!"

"Agreed!"

The duo ran hard, breaths coming in pants. But soon enough, they both heard the sound of pursuit.

Rough shouting in German rang out behind them as they ran, and a few metallic clicks sounded as guns were loaded.

Bullets flew through the air; one cut so close to Arthur's face, it grazed his skin. The bullets were uncoordinatedly fired but one thing was for sure;

There was no chance of living now. They were caught, dead.

...

•Thank you, my boy! Is there something you want in return?

•No, sir, nothing.

•are you Mr. Bonnefoy?

•Yeah, I am.

•My mother was friends with Emilie ... She sends her condolences and wishes you the best of luck.

•(Zitto, Fratello!) shut up, brother!


	7. Ch7: Imprisoned

_Holy shiet, this took me AGES to write._

_I ended up re-writing it. Twice._

_But, here's chapter 7 :) chapter 8'll be up within two _

_weeks._

_Hope you guys like~_

_((Also, yeah, couldn't help it. I had to put Stephen (Australia) in this XD))_

_**-Chapter 7: Imprisoned-**_

The bullets hit the ground behind them and around them, a haunting melody filling the air as the two men ran as hard as they could, long grass whipping their legs.

Arthur's breathing was even, surprisingly, his eyes focussed in front of him; not behind him, on the group of frenzied German soldiers, whom were shrieking their calls for them to stop, to give up... to die.

A silver streak slashed through the air right in front of Francis' eyes, a whisper of _merde_ leaving his lips along with a heavy huff of a sigh, long legs powering his body forward. His fingers numbly felt along the pistol, trying to grip it tighter as he counted slowly in his head.

_Un. Deux. Trois!_

With the energy of a child but the speed of the very things he was still dodging, bullets, he spun around and fired a few shots at the soldiers, giving a cry of happiness when the shrapnel tore through a man's thigh.

Francis spotted an officer running at the back of the group, his medals shining dully as the man yelled out a simple command, in clear, good English.

"Cease firing now!"

The two men continued running, but as Francis whipped his head around to look at Arthur, his companion hit the ground, taken down by a blonde haired man, whose face was stern, expression steadfast as he held the squirming Englishman down.

Francis' lopes had slowed, enough that another soldier grabbed him, knocking the pistol out of his hand.

The officer caught up, the man's eyes glittering as he glanced over the two apprehended men, a smirk on his lips.

"Oh, how cute. I love the long hair, so sexy and flowing, ja?" he sniggered at Francis, nudging the man with the toe of his boot, moving over to where Arthur was.

He, without hesitation, kicked the Brit hard in the stomach, drawing a hiss of pain out of him.

Arthur groaned, wanting to curl up, but the slight movement he made gain him another booting.

A pair of strong arms pulled him to his feet, pinning his arms behind his back. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, his innards ached, his mind was numb. Overall, he knew he was done; finished, utterly screwed.

The mission had been a failure.

That did not worry him too much; he wouldn't live to tell his superiors the news, but he guessed they would eventually find out something.

"Oh ho, what've we got here? A British intelligence officer?" the officer laughed, joined by his fellows, whom looked tired but somewhat... happy.

"Piss off." Arthur spat, eyes wandering to where two soldiers were going through their bags, throwing their clothes onto the ground. The officer's eyes followed, narrowing when he spotted the files being pulled out.

"Leave that for me, I've been told to keep that for the Gestapo."

Only then did Arthur truly realise how screwed he was.

There was not any chance in the world that he would be able to go home again, to his little house on the outskirts of London. He'd never see his mother again. Nor Alfred, that crazy American adopted brother of his. And his cat, Teacup, would be another but, of course, the cat would know no different; perhaps a new house and owner but he would still get fed.

The two men were led onto the truck, which wasn't too far away, and told to sit with their hands behind their heads, foreheads against the floor of the truck.

They were told to keep silent, which they did, for a whole three hours. The soldiers bustled to life, nudging them to their feet and marching them past weary guards, into one large building, split into communal cells.

Francis was pushed into one such cell, but Arthur was led elsewhere, past many cells until they reached a secluded section of the building, to a dark wooden door that moaned in protest when the guard shoved it open and dragged Arthur inside, tying him up on a chair, head forced back against the chair.

After fiddling with clasps for a full eight minutes, the guard left, the last sliver of light leaving with him as he shut the door with a dull metallic bang behind him, leaving Arthur in complete darkness, the type that felt suffocating.

Arthur swallowed, well, tried to swallow but his throat was dry, his tongue thick. Breathing was like a fight with his lungs, every inhale a struggle. He was contemplating how he'd lasted this long when the door swung open, and a tall German stepped in, flicking the light on before he walked over to the large oak desk that sat two meters in front of Arthur, and leaned on the front, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied the imprisoned Briton.

Arthur could not pick out any features of the German's, other than the usual Teutonic heritage blonde hair and blue eyes.

"You stole from the Gestapo, correct?"

"I have no idea what you are talking abo-"

"You do. You took this." the officer held up the files with a sigh. "Who told you and why?"

Arthur bit his lip, trying to focus on the man's features. It wasn't the officer who'd apprehended them, he realised, dread swirling in his gut. It was one of the officers, Gestapo officers, whom had seen him in Paris.

Shit.

"H-honestly, I have no idea!" Arthur was sweating, but definitely not lying. The officer, however, did not believe him.

Three men had slipped into the room, and stood behind the chair. The chair in which Arthur sat was lowered, by a lever, back and his mouth was forced open. One soldier got out a pair of pliers and put it into his mouth, clamping the cold metal around one of his back molars and tugging the tooth out.

His scream tore through the air, blood trickled down his throat as they pulled the tooth fully out and held it up to the light.

He had the feeling this was only the beginning.

:::

Meanwhile, Francis was inspecting his cell.

It was large and contained four thin mats, which served as their beds. There was a window of sorts on the long wall, barred. Streaks of moonlight shone through, illuminating the tanned face of one of his cellmates on the floor, whom was asleep.

Another man stood by the window, watching something outside and chuckling. He turned when Francis moved further into the room and a broad grin illuminated his features.

"Christ, never thought I'd see another lively man again! This bloke's never awake, I swear."

Francis chuckled, walking over.

The stranger offered his hand and grinned more when Francis shook his hand, his grip firm.

"Stephen, nice to meet ya."

"A pleasure, I'm Francis." he smiled, looking out the window.

"Welcome to your new home, mate. Not quite Camp Lucky Strike, but it's hell of a lot better."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	8. Ch8: Patriotic Pride

_I know, I'm terrible._

_I blame a huge assignment I had, total pain in the arse._

_I gives to vous this. Enjoy._

_I will, as repayment for my lameness, be writing another story; probably not any ships in it just unadulterated humour. Dark, dark humour *sighs happily*_

_I'll try to start on Chapter 9 soon, too._

_..._

_**-Chapter 8: Patriotic Pride-**_

Francis raised an eyebrow, turning slightly to study Steven.

"How bad is that camp?" he asked.

"Ah, not too bad, from what we've heard. They make the prisoners make cigarettes, that's about it. Here, we're working on planting crops a little while aways, most days anyway. Somedays, we stay here to try to fix up certain buildings," Steven replied, moving over to one of the mats and sitting down, "originally, this place was gonna be temporary." he added, noting the Frenchman's confused look.

Francis sat opposite Steven, tugging at his shirt with a sigh.

"So, how long have you been here?"

"Whoa, mate. Can't I ask some questions?"

"Désolé... Go ahead, ask."

Steven frowned, tapping his knee thoughtfully.

"Why are you here? You don't look like a soldier." he said.

He sighed, should he lie? For what purpose? After a moment of silence, he shook his head slightly.

"Caught at the wrong time, with a person I perhaps should have turned in." he shrugged, looking away. He wouldn't do that, ever, especially to Arthur; he was getting awfully fond of the Brit, and despite his own predicament, was worried for him.

The Australian's face lit up excitedly.

"Shit, really?" he lowered his voice, glancing at the door, "Lutz, some big Gestapo officer, has been here since last night. We heard a rumour that they were looking for someone who was heading up this way." his expression turned sombre, "You came from Paris, right?" Francis nodded, looking up again, "Thought so. You're pretty lucky to have made it this far."

"Not as lucky as we could have been." Francis smiled sadly, "... Back to my question?"

"Ah, right. Well, Heracules and I've been here for... a year, I think. My company was teamed up with his, trying to keep the Germans out of Greece." Steven shook his head, "Didn't work. Suppose we should be happy we got stuck here and not moved to Austria."

"It's not too bad here, they feed us well, at least."

Francis was startled at the sound of a new voice, eyes quickly seeking out the source; the tanned man, whom was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, closing his olive green eyes momentarily as he yawned.

"Too right. We woke you up, didn't we?" Steven grinned sheepishly.

"Yes, it's fine. Heracules Karpusi." the man nodded to Francis, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a slight wince.

"Frances Bonnefoy, a pleasure."

Steven told Heracules practically everything Francis had told him, interupted by a soldier rapping his knuckles across the bars of the door.

"It's been requested that everyone comes outside so we may search your persons... Usual drill; hurry up, don't dawdle."

The three men exchanged glances, Steven being to first to stand up and walk to the door, greeting the soldier with a nod.

"Anais, you got any alcohol this week?" Francis overheard him say, drawing a soft laugh from the soldier.

"I told you to call me Vladimir, my middle name. Anais is such a feminine name... Not yet, give me a few hours and I'll have some bourbon."

Heracules and Francis made their way over, waiting patiently to be led outside.

As they waited for the soldier to open the door, he took the time to study the man.

He was young, probably eighteen, twenty at most. His hair was a dark blonde, and his eyes a muddy reddish-brown. His physique wasn't overwhelming, more of a typical conscript's physique; slightly slouched shoulders, loose uniform that hinted at perhaps a lack of food intake or just that the uniform was indeed too big for him.

Anais, with a small grin, finally opened the door, watching the trio as they stepped out, joining the thin line of prisoners shuffling their way outside.

The night wind was bitter for that time of year when they got out into the open grounds. Dirt swirled at their feet and a hint of condensation was in the air.

The men shivered as they were ordered into lines, according to cell room. Francis' eyes drifted to the sky, noting that dawn was about to break, the sky beginning to shed her dark veil.

A bugle sounded twice then silence returned, only to be broken again by muffled screams, coming from the building's far end.

The men kept their heads lowered, some whispering prayers or just cursing.

Soldiers lined the wall behind them, as well as the sides and in front of them, leaving a space around a flag pole.

They raised their hands in salute, each man varying in enthusiasm; from dull boredom to patriotic pride.

The bugle started up once more as the flag was hoisted, dawn beginning to break, painting the sky a deeply orange tinged blood red.

Steven's eyes were elsewhere, Francis saw when he looked across at him. The Australian's eyes were fixed on the horizon, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he saluted, soon beginning to hum the anthem of his country then slipping into the song.

All eyes turned to him.

The words "our home is girt by sea" barely leaving his lips before a soldier whacked him across the back of the head, silencing him.

"Patriotic pride is cute, but there is a thing called respect. Steven, you forget you've been our prisoner for nearly eighteen months. _Üntermensch._" The German spat, drawing his pistol and pressing it to his head.

Steven's eyes were shut tightly, the men around him stepping back, their own eyes wide.

"He's only young and foolish. Plus he's technically not _'Üntermensch'_ ." Anais spoke up, staring at the soldier, whom snorted.

"He's older than you, Ana. Whatever." he gave Steven a shove, sending the man sprawling in the dirt.

After that, the procession continued, each man being searched thoroughly for weapons and the like before being sorted into groups.

Breakfast was a meager few pieces of bread and cold coffee, eaten in haste whilst standing.

The groups, of about eight or so, walked along a trail that led out of the camp, talking in hushed voices and occasionally glancing at the soldiers. Every so often, a group would peel off the trail and onto a seperate trail, a few soldiers in tow.

Finally, their group turned and trudged through the muddy- as it had rained a little in the last week around these parts- ground, nearly tripping over old tree roots as they moved onwards.

Then stopped.

Francis looked up, sighing.

So this was his fate...


End file.
